No Gun Intended

by Zoe Burke

  “Sí, amiga. These are good police. They are doing a good job.”

  It was three o’clock in the morning, again, by the time we got back to the house. We came in the front door to find Dusty greeting us and Dad lying on the couch, reading a book. I hadn’t called, not wanting to wake him and Mom up. He didn’t look happy.

  “Dad, we’re all okay. I’m sorry I didn’t call. There was an, um, incident at the hospital, and we ended up at the police station for the last couple of hours, and…”

  “An incident?”

  “A shooting, Jeff,” Mickey answered. “We were chasing Wesley and someone shot him outside the building. We’re fine.”

  Dad took this in, then stood up and pointed at my face. “You’re bleeding?”

  “No, Dad. Just scraped. Took a tumble. But I’m great, really!” I hugged him. “Thanks for staying up, though I wish you hadn’t. I feel bad that you’re not asleep.” I let him go.

  Dad put his book down on the coffee table. “Bea, Mickey, Luis, this has got to stop. I know that none of this is your fault or your doing, but I can’t have Sylvia in danger, and I need to feel confident that Annabelle is as safe as she can be.”

  “Jeff, I can only say…”

  Dad held up his hand to stop Mickey from continuing. “I also know that you will be in other dangerous situations in the future, given your, er, current livelihoods.

  “Jeff, I understand that you’re worried….”

  Dad stopped him again. “My problem is that this young woman here is my extraordinary daughter, my only child. It wasn’t that long ago that she had a job as a publicist for a publishing company in San Francisco, and now she’s chasing bad guys, getting kidnapped, and being harmed. I don’t like it.”

  None of us said anything.

  “But how she leads her life, and how the two of you lead yours, is all up to you. I ask for only one thing.”

  “Name it, please, Dad. You’re freaking me out with all of this serious father talk. I feel like it’s 1999 when I was seventeen and stayed out on New Year’s Eve partying like it was 1999, remember that song?, and I came home at two, and you were so pissed off at me I thought I would be grounded in solitary confinement until George Clooney actually got married, which would have been right around now, come to think of it, and that would make it, like, fifteen years in solitary, and…”

  “Beatrice Annabelle Starkey, please shut up.”

  I did.

  “Here are my conditions. You must give me all the details, all the time. I cannot sit here and wonder if you are in trouble. You must figure out ways to call if something goes wrong. And you must let me and Sylvia help, however we can. We’re in this, too, now.”

  This was not what I was expecting to hear. I thought Dad was going to ask Mickey to take me back to New York. “Oh, Dad, jeez, of course. We won’t put you through this again, I promise.” I kissed his cheek. “Let’s all go to bed.”

  “Mickey? Luis?”

  “I hear you loud and clear, sir,” said Luis.

  “Jeff, again, I can’t apologize enough, and yes, we will keep you posted on all the details while we’re here.”

  “Fair enough.” Dad picked up his book. “I’m going to bed. Sleep well.” He left us.

  Mickey and I said goodnight to Luis, walked into the guest room, and shut the door. “Your old man,” Mickey said, “is not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “Solid, through and through. We can’t worry him anymore. I’m glad Mom went to bed, anyway.” I kicked off my shoes. “I wonder if we’ll ever have a normal visit with them?”

  Mickey flopped on the bed. “We will. We’ll invite them to New York, sometime when we don’t have any cases, and we’ll do touristy things.”

  “Until then, Mickey…will we find out anything about Wesley tomorrow, do you think?”

  “Hope so. Maybe they’ll even have found the shooter by now. They had a lot of officers combing the area after we left.”

  “Maybe you and I will solve this mystery without the police. Like Luther and Alice Morgan, only you’re not a cop any longer and I’m not a psychopath.”

  Mickey yawned. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  I planted my palms on the sides of my face. “Luther? You never watched Luther? BBC series starring Idris Elba? Jeez, Mickey. As soon as I think you’re a highly educated man, you stun me with something like this. I’ll have to have to reconsider our entire relationship.”

  He pulled me onto the bed and gave me a long kiss. “Enough reconsidering?” he mumbled.

  “Yup.”

  We went to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Just when we thought things were getting clearer, the case got muddier than a pig sty. While we didn’t know what the hell Loren Scranton was up to, we saw no connection between him and Claudia. We assumed that Wesley Young was recovering in the hospital from a gunshot wound, while whoever shot him would soon be arrested. We assumed Claudia would eventually wake up (well, I assumed that anyway, putting on my best Pollyanna mindset), and we assumed that Greta and Julius were connected to all of it, theorizing that the gun that killed Hank Howard or Howard Hanks came from them, or else why would they have kidnapped me?

  But, like I said, things got as crystal clear as a brick wall.

  The first wrong assumption had to do with Wesley Young. It turned out that the guy we chased out of the hospital wasn’t Wesley Young at all. He had no ID on him, but once he started talking to the police, he said he was a friend of Wesley’s and was looking in on Claudia for him.

  His name was Ricky Martin, and I’m not kidding.

  When the police asked him who he thought might have shot him, he said he didn’t have a clue.

  Dawson told Mickey he didn’t believe anything Ricky said.

  The shooter seemed to have gotten away from the police as fast as a pop-up fly ball.

  The next assumption that was wholly mistaken was that Loren Scranton was a separate matter. We were astonished to hear that he had visited Claudia in the hospital, according to a nurse—who wasn’t Tiffany.

  “Huh?” I wondered aloud, when Mickey was giving us the recap he got from Dawson on the phone. We crowded around the dining room table, drinking coffee and eating cheesy scrambies, prepared by Mickey. “Scranton is involved in this mess after all? Are you serious?”

  Mickey sighed. “He might have gone to the hospital as part of his stalking routine. Maybe he followed you and Sylvia there, but didn’t get to Claudia’s room until you had left.”

  Mom took a swig of coffee. “That’s possible. We weren’t in the room very long, and then we went to the cafeteria. That prickbrain.”

  “Well,” said Dad, “if he shows up again we’ll put a restraining order on him. I wonder how long he’ll be in Portland?”

  No one answered, since no one knew.

  “Okay, so what are we doing today?” Dad continued.

  “I still think we should try to find Wesley Young. He could be the answer to many questions,” replied Luis.

  “I agree,” said Mickey, “even though the police are probably conducting their own search. Annabelle, when were the Bigelows going to be back in town?”

  “Mr. B was going to Miami. Mrs. B should be back today. Let’s go see her.”

  Mom stood up. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll do the dishes while you all get showered and dressed.”

  Mickey, Luis, and I traded glances. “Um, Mom, I don’t think all five of us should go. I think you and Dad should stay here.”

  Dad regarded me over the top of his glasses. “Nancy Bigelow might open up to your mother, a doctor and a mother herself.”

  I couldn’t believe that Dad was suggesting that Mom play detective, given everything that had transpired over the last couple of days, even given the previous night’s conversation. “I don’t want t
o overwhelm her, is all,” I sputtered.

  Luis stood up. “I do not have to go, Annabelle. Your mother could be an asset. I think you are right, Jeff. I will see if I can dig up any information on Greta and her friend Julius. Perhaps there will be some lead as to who was with Julius when he kidnapped you.”

  I was about to protest again when Mickey stopped me. “It’s fine for Sylvia to come, and thank you, Sylvia, for helping. You, too, Jeff.”

  Dad turned his attention to the newspaper. “You see Scranton, you know what to do.”

  “Are you talking to me, dear, because I know exactly what I’m going to do to that sleazy snake if he shows up.” Mom turned on the faucet in the sink.

  “I wasn’t talking to you, Syl.”

  “We just want you to talk to Nancy Bigelow, Mom, okay? No shenanigans.”

  Mom laughed. “Yes, boss.”

  But we didn’t end up going to see Nancy Bigelow, because one of my assumptions was correct: Claudia Bigelow woke up.

  ***

  We were back at the hospital—Mom, Mickey, and me. We heard the news about Claudia because when I called Nancy on her cell phone, she was already at Claudia’s bedside. Claudia had woken up in the very wee hours of the morning, and Nancy had raced down from Seattle. I asked her if it would be okay for us to stop by. She told me the police had come and gone, and that Claudia was very tired, but that she already told Nancy that she wanted to see me. She remembered that she had set up a meeting, and that she was attacked.

  When we walked into the room, Claudia was propped up in bed, sipping through a straw. Nancy was seated by the window, casually leafing through a People magazine. It was a really old one, with Jennifer Lopez and her kids on the cover. She was so good in that 1990s movie with George Clooney, Out of Sight. Since then, well, no comment.

  Anyway, Nancy greeted us, then pointed at her daughter. “She’s back!”

  Claudia put her cup down and smoothed out the sheets in front of her. She looked exhausted.

  Mom walked around to the far side of the bed and took Claudia’s hand. “How are you feeling, dear? I’m the doctor who found you at the Japanese Garden.”

  Claudia half smiled. “I’m doing all right. I have a headache, and I’m really tired.” She sized up me and Mickey. “Are you the detective?”

  Mickey nodded. “Yes, I’m…”

  “No, I meant you,” she interrupted, pointing at me.

  “I’m Annabelle Starkey, yes, the person you called. You ended up with my backpack. This is Mickey, my partner.”

  “Glad to see you awake,” Mickey said.

  Claudia kept her eyes on me. “The police told me that you did have the backpack with the gun.”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t tell me that when I called.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “You said you were in trouble. I wanted to see if I could help, and I wanted to find out why I ended up with that gun.” I approached her on the opposite side of the bed from Mom. “Do you still need my help?”

  Claudia pulled her hand away from Mom and folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t know.”

  “Claudia, what about Wesley Young?” asked Mickey. “Were you getting the gun for him, or from him, for some reason?”

  Claudia clenched her teeth. “Wesley has nothing to do with this.”

  Nancy stood up abruptly. “That’s what you keep saying, but we don’t believe you. He was never any good for you. He hit you once, remember? My God, Claudia, you can’t keep protecting a criminal!” She leaned on the foot of the bed. “Tell these people what you told the police.”

  “Wesley didn’t hit me and I didn’t tell the police anything.”

  “Exactly my point! How can we help you if you won’t talk to us? You know as soon as you feel better the police will probably arrest you.”

  “For what, Mom? For getting mugged? For saying that the backpack was supposed to be for me? I haven’t broken any laws.”

  Mickey sighed. “She’s right. They can hold her for questioning, I suppose, but they have no proof that the gun was supposed to be hers, other than Annabelle telling them so.”

  Claudia glared at me. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

  “Hey! We probably saved your life, little missy, so I’d can the Lindsay Lohan whiny act, if I were you! You asked for my help, remember? And police show up when someone gets beaned on a hillside in the middle of the day!”

  Mickey put his hand on my arm to stop me.

  Claudia started crying. Mom pulled a tissue out of the box by the bed and gave it to her.

  Nancy sat back down. “Here we go again. Darling daughter, we all know that you’re in some kind of trouble, but we can’t help you if you don’t tell us what’s going on.”

  “I don’t know who mugged me, okay?!” Claudia shouted. “And I’m not going to talk to you about why I wanted that gun!” She was still shouting.

  Mickey and I traded a quick look. Aha. She at least admitted that the gun was hers.

  Nancy gulped, stunned. “What? You have to tell the police.”

  “I’ll deny I said anything about that if any of you tell them.”

  Mom patted the top of her head. “Calm down now. We don’t have to go over all of this right now. But I would like to ask you how you know Loren Scranton.”

  “Who?”

  “Loren Scranton.”

  “Don’t know him.”

  “He came to visit you.”

  “Must have been asleep.”

  “What about the note, Claudia?” I stepped in.

  “What note?”

  “The one I found in your drawer. It’s gone now. Someone took it. But wait, here’s a picture of it.” I pulled out my phone, dialed it up, and held the screen in front of her face.

  Now, she didn’t look so hot anyway, but when she read that note, her complexion grayed to the hue of Richard Gere’s hair. She tried to fake it, though. “I don’t know what that is. I have never seen it before.”

  I knew she was lying. Her bluff was as transparent as Jennifer Lopez’s clothes.

  With that, she reached over to the buttons to level the bed and announced that she needed to rest and would everyone please leave. Nancy didn’t move, but Claudia said, “You, too, Mom.” Nancy threw the magazine on the floor and huffed out, saying she might as well go back to the hotel and get some rest.

  Mom told Claudia to rest and that we were her friends, then Mickey followed Mom out the door. I lingered for a few seconds, waiting for them to be out, and keeping my eyes on Claudia’s face.

  I wasn’t completely surprised when she whispered, “Come back. Alone.”

  I nodded and left.

  Beatrice Annabelle Starkey, DDS, was about to be hired on her first case as a detective. Not Mickey, not Luis. Nope, me. I’m the one the client wanted.

  Holy crap.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I saw Nancy outside before I got in the car. When I asked her if Phillip would be returning to Portland from Miami sooner than planned, since Claudia was awake, she said he was rearranging his schedule and would be in Portland later or the next morning. I also said it was smart for her to go back to the hotel.

  She looked at me suspiciously. “Why do you say that?”

  “To be perfectly frank,” I lied, “you look completely worn out. I’m just hoping you’ll be able to get some solid sleep.” I plastered what I hoped was a caring smile on my face. I couldn’t believe this woman was going to leave her daughter’s bedside at this point.

  “Well, that’s very nice of you,” she too-sweetly responded, “but don’t you worry about me. And don’t bother Claudia anymore. I don’t want her stress to compound while she’s in the hospital. We need to give her some time to regain her strength.”

  “I’m sure you’re
right. She’s lucky to have you in her corner,” I lied again. “By the way, I think you know all about Greta from the Uptown Billiards Club. The working theory is that it was her gun that was on its way to Claudia, and it was her gun that murdered her ex-boyfriend.”

  “Yes, yes, the police have told me.”

  “Well, I want to make sure you understand that your daughter could still be in danger.”

  “Well, of course I understand that!” She fumbled with her car keys. “I really must go now.” She rushed off.

  After we got in the car I told Mickey and Mom what Claudia had said to me. I also told them about my conversation with Nancy.

  Mickey sighed and rubbed his face.

  “What, Mickey?”

  “Nothing. Just too much information, maybe. You don’t know that the police already told her all of that about Greta. It’s better to keep the information we have to ourselves until we know more.”

  “I think she knew, Mickey.” But I wasn’t sure. Mickey was right. Me and my big mouth again.

  Mom drove while Mickey called Luis from the car to let him know about Claudia and to find out if there was any progress made on Wesley Young and his friend Ricky. Apparently there was, based on the amount of time Mickey was silent, listening to Luis. We were exiting the parking lot when Mickey hung up.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Luis called your friend Perry at that bar, the Rowdy something?”

  “Yeats.”

  “Right. Clint meets William Butler. Anyway, he asked him about Ricky, gave a description, told him it was in relation to Hank Howard. Perry seems to think he’s seen Ricky around, so your Dad and Luis are on their way over there to show him Ricky’s picture.”

  “We have Ricky’s picture?” Mom asked.

  “Luis found him on Facebook. Printed his photo.”

  “Are you sure he didn’t find the wrong Ricky Martin?”

  Mickey chuckled. “Yeah. This Ricky is twenty-four years old and lives in Seattle. And he’s friends with someone who’s friends with Claudia.”

  “Let’s go to The Rowdy Yeats. I like Perry, and I feel like playing pool again.”